


Please Quell the Impulse

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping, Ransom Drop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-09 15:39:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10415400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: Of course Neal Caffrey was a very clever con artist who could multitask and implement on the fly when necessary. However, at the end of the day, he preferred his world to be neat and orderly, and nothing beat the feeling of having all of his ducks in a row. That was crucial for a successful con. However, in this story, Neal’s life is turned upside down and he feels powerless to right it again.





	1. Surprise, Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Even though I have given up creating any new White Collar stories, while copying my old fictions from a flash drive onto a new laptop, I came across one that I had forgotten to finish at some point in time. So, like Neal, I felt the impulsive urge, or maybe it was a compulsion, to complete it. So, here it is!

     It was a warm autumn evening, and Neal had his suit jacket slung over his shoulder as he made his way up the three flights of stairs to his loft.

     “Seven, eight, nine, ten …” he counted off each step silently in his mind as he made the tedious ascent. This counting business was just a little peculiarity that he did each time that he climbed to the top of June’s mansion. It wasn’t that he was compulsive—god no! Well, maybe a little bit, his more truthful side argued in his head. He had to admit that he did have his little quirks and rituals.

     Every morning before Neal left for the FBI office, the con man meticulously straightened his home space. Well, that wasn’t because he was OCD, but rather because he wanted to make sure that neither he nor Mozzie had left anything incriminating out in the open if unwelcomed visitors happened to show up. Right—sure, that’s what that was all about, his logical left brain argued.

     However, Neal couldn’t deny that he liked things neat and tidy because that kept him firmly entrenched in his comfort zone. Therefore, all of Byron’s vintage suits hanging in the dressing area were encased in protective plastic and precisely lined up facing in the same direction. The shoes, whether they were high-priced leather oxfords or old well-worn brogans, got the same scrupulous treatment. His paints and brushes were cared for with the loving hand of an artist. Even his desk at work never saw unnecessary clutter—well, that small bust of Socrates on the corner was an essential talisman. Neal made sure to give the old philosopher’s head a fond tap for luck before every operation.

     It was always bewildering to Neal that smart, perceptive Peter Burke never recognized this side of the man under his controlled supervision. Neal wondered if that was because he had managed to hide this facet of his persona so well, or because the FBI agent had already slotted “Neal the Con Man” into a convenient little niche in his mind. In fact, Peter liked nothing more than to pontificate about how Neal was impulsive, and that impulsiveness, he often reminded his CI, was what initially got him arrested in the first place.

     Neal agreed that it definitely hadn’t been his finest hour. However, that little stunt occurred during his “Kate” years when he had been young and foolish and in love. Thinking back to the resulting almost four years of his incarceration, Neal realized that life in prison was one long rut of sameness, and he had marked its passing with neat, precisely fashioned marks on the wall of his cell. Perhaps that bland, repetitive existence of doing the same thing day after day had its perks because there were no surprises or challenges in the regimen. He didn’t have to think, he just had to “be” until his sentence was completed.

     Right now, Neal continued to count in his head, and when he reached that magic number of thirty-two, he tiredly pushed open the door of his loft and gave a brief perusal of the space. Things were as orderly as he had left them earlier this morning except for one extraneous item. There was a small white envelope on the dining table with his name written in careful black script across the front. When he curiously opened it, he discovered a key inside as well as a small index card with an address and a number in parenthesis below it. “Déjà vu all over again,” Neal thought to himself as a Yogi Berra malapropism popped into his mind. 

     He concentrated for just a second to bring Mozzie’s latest burner phone number to mind, and then waited for the little bald misanthrope to answer.

     “Yeah, Neal. What’s up, mon frère?” Mozzie asked cheerfully.

     Neal took a deep, patient breath before responding. “Moz, I know that I’m going to regret asking this, but did you perhaps purloin another stupendous treasure—maybe some ancient Incan gold or the long lost paintings stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum?”

     “Now why would you ask that?” was Mozzie’s perplexed response.

     When Neal went on to explain the mysterious missive that he found awaiting him, Mozzie agreed to meet Neal at the address on the card.

     “Now don’t do anything until I get there,” Mozzie warned. “It could be dangerous and you might get yourself kidnapped again.”

     “If you think that it’s dangerous, Moz, do you really want to be a part of this,” Neal asked his wingman skeptically.

     There was a pause as Mozzie considered this. “Yeah, I’ll bring along my antique Japanese katana just in case,” he finally decided.

     “You actually own an authentic Samurai sword, Moz? If you do, would you even be able to wield it if your life or mine was in peril?”

     “Do not mock, Neal,” Mozzie cautioned. “Still waters run deep, my friend.”

~~~~~~~~~~

        Mozzie was already lurking in the shadows waiting for Neal when he arrived at an industrial storage locker facility, and the little man did, indeed, have a really vicious-looking weapon clutched in his hand.

     “Once more unto the breach,” the tiny bespectacled ninja whispered softly as he emerged from hiding. Then in classic Mozzie style, he suddenly felt the need to cite the quote’s origin. “That’s from Shakespeare’s Henry V, Act III, in case you didn’t know.”

     “Moz,” Neal answered as he rolled his eyes, “I believe that Sir Laurence Olivier delivered that line with a bit more panache. And you’re making a potpourri out of ethnic cultures. We’re not some English army besieging a French city with Japanese weaponry. We’re simply two dumb American stooges standing in front of an innocent storage locker in downtown Manhattan.”

     “Sometimes, Neal,” Mozzie sighed, “you simply have no artistic soul.”

     When the snarking ended, Neal used the key to unlock the roll up metal door and the automatic fluorescent light winked on as the pair stepped inside of the small space. The two men found the enclosure to be almost completely empty except for a sturdy packing box sitting in the middle of the floor. The cautious explorers gingerly approached to look inside and were dumbfounded to behold a small infant nestled beneath a thick pink blanket. The sudden harsh illumination from above appeared to have startled a previously sleeping child, and it began to wiggle, squint, and make mewling noises. Mozzie laid his sword on the floor and bent down to peer myopically at this surprise package. When the baby began to whimper in earnest, he slowly began to slide his hands around the little bundle.

     “Do you really think that you should pick it up?” Neal asked dubiously.

     “Neal, she’s not some ticking time bomb or IED that’s suddenly going to go off,” Mozzie answered wryly as he cuddled the baby to his chest.

     “How do you even know that it’s a girl,” Neal asked quizzically.

     “Well duh—the pink blanket was my first clue,” Mozzie answered snidely, “and I was further enlightened when I read the name on the note that was underneath of her.” 

     Neal bent to retrieve another little index card with the same flowing script.

     _“Her name is Emma, and you can give her a better home than I ever could.”_

     Mozzie had started swaying from side to side and making soft, crooning sounds in an effort to comfort the small baby. Amazingly, the tiny little girl molded herself to his upper body and immediately settled.

     The conspiracy theorist’s eyes seemed to be magnified behind his glasses as he studied Neal intently before querying the obvious.

     “At this juncture, my friend, I suppose the burning question is ‘why you?’ By any chance, could this child be yours, Neal?”

     “No!” Neal sputtered in indignation, before adding another unequivocal “No!” for emphasis. After a few heartbeats, the next “no” was said a bit softer, and then followed up with a disturbing, “at least I don’t think so.”

     Mozzie cocked his head and gazed at Neal with a droll expression on his face. “Well, little Emma here looks to be about three or four months old, and since it takes nine months to manufacture one of these little critters, think back to what you may have been doing with a member of the fairer sex approximately one year ago.”

     “I don’t remember exactly what I was doing a year ago,” Neal said in exasperation. “That was right around the time that I was on Peter’s shit list and being forced to start over training a new handler. Then that handler gets himself mysteriously murdered, and I find myself suddenly caught up in Hagan’s little blackmail plot. You could say that I was a bit busy juggling a lot of balls in the air. So no, I can’t pinpoint exactly what I was doing at the time or who I was doing it with.”

     “Seriously, Neal?” Mozzie said with an incredulous frown.

     “Seriously, Moz!” Neal quipped right back, although he did look a bit sheepish.

     Neal actually did remember that a year ago he had slipped into a funk because his life was in shambles. His father had proved that he was indeed a murderer, Sara had left him for London, and Peter seemed to hold him responsible for everything that probably included Eve’s original sin in the garden of Eden. At the nadir of that existence, Neal recalled frequently nursing his hurt in nameless bars overindulging in something stronger than wine to temporarily blot it all out. He hazily remembered one occasion when a pretty and compassionate young lady took pity on him, and he may have sought some solace in her company. There were no concrete memories of anything that may have transpired that night. When he awoke with a monstrous hangover the next morning, there was no trace of the mystery lady except for a lingering scent of perfume on the clothes that he was still wearing from the previous evening.

     Mozzie knew his handsome friend well, and the jaded little man had a penchant for reading between the lines and adding his own imagined versions of the dramas in Neal’s life.

     “Neal,” he said sternly, “didn’t I always tell you to wrap your wein…….”

     “Don’t say it, Moz,” Neal stopped his pedantic pal before he could complete the sentence. “Please, just don’t say it!”

     It soon became obvious that the bald man was pouting. “I must say that I feel a little hurt that I wasn’t afforded the privilege of meeting any new conquests that you may have made in the love department. I _always_ met all of your paramours in the past. You’re not ashamed of me now, are you?”

     “There was no _paramour_ , Moz! Get that through your head. I may or may not have had a one night stand, but I really don’t remember because I was drunk off my gourd,” Neal huffed in frustration. He fought to get himself under control and not impulsively panic just yet. He needed to think slowly and rationally.

     “Now let’s leave that hot topic alone and concentrate on tonight’s logistics. A mother certainly wouldn’t just leave her child alone for an extended length of time in a storage locker. How could she know when I would find the note, or even if I would come here after I had read it? So, she had to have somebody watching June’s house to see if I would take the bait, and she had to be nearby this storage facility when she got the word that I was on the move. You arrived before me, Moz. Did you see anyone hanging around or leaving the premises?”

     Mozzie’s forehead wrinkled in deep thought. “No, Neal, I didn’t, and you know how paranoid I am. I always case my surroundings very thoroughly. However, I only got here minutes before you did, so that’s no help.”

     Neal’s mind was still churning. “Maybe Peter can get footage from security cameras outside on the street and from whatever system that they have installed in this facility so that we can get a glimpse of who abandoned this baby.”

     “You’re going to clue the Suit into this?” Mozzie asked in an astounded voice.

     “Yeah, Moz,” Neal answered succinctly. “Exactly how else am I supposed to explain a baby in my loft when he comes over to do his usual periodic snooping with a six-pack of beer and a bottle of cheap wine.”

     “I’ll betcha he’s not going to be happy,” Mozzie forecasted, “but maybe the best defense is a good offense. Take him by surprise and get him on board and busy solving a puzzle. That should take some of the sting out of that scorpion’s tail.”

     Neal had his doubts about that, but once Neal, Mozzie, and the baby made it home to Riverside Drive and June was cooing over the new arrival, the young con man made the fateful call.

     “Hey Peter,” Neal began when his handler answered, “I was wondering if maybe you could help me out. I sort of have a situation going on.”

     There was an ominous pause while Peter was probably checking Neal’s anklet location. Finally, the FBI agent responded in a steely voice devoid of any warmth or inflection. “What have you done now, Neal?”

     “I’m not really sure,” Neal answered in a soft voice.


	2. Getting Acclimated

     Peter must have broken a few city speed limits because not twenty minutes later he sailed through Neal’s loft door only to be brought up short by the sight before him. A small baby in a dainty pink dress was perched on Mozzie’s lap reaching tiny fingers towards his nose and blowing bubbles.

     “So,” Peter drawled, “what exactly is going on here, Neal?”

     With a frown, his CI handed over both notes and let the agent draw his own conclusions after Neal had provided an abbreviated explanation of the circumstances.

     “Is she yours?” Peter asked curiously as he inclined his head towards the object in question.

     Neal shrugged. “I’m really not sure, Peter. If she is, I swear that I don’t know how it happened.”

     “You don’t know how it happened?” Peter repeated incredulously. “Unless you’re trying to sell me on the concept of immaculate conception, Neal, I’m pretty sure that I know how it happened. How could you do something so impulsive!”

     “I’m _not_ impulsive, Peter,” Neal argued. “Everybody is just jumping to conclusions that this child was left for me to find because, at some point in the distant past that I don’t recall, I may have been …”

     “Irresponsible?” Peter hastily supplied a word to complete the sentence. “Actually, Neal, that word is a synonym for impulsive! Apparently, at that past point in time that you claim not to remember, you must have _impulsively_ grabbed an opportunity without considering the possible consequences of your actions. Color me surprised!”

     “I was hoping that maybe you could use Bureau resources to locate the mother,” Neal said hopefully as he tried to deflect another lecture.

     Peter didn’t answer because he was now studying the little urchin who was gurgling happily.

     “She looks like you, Neal,” he proclaimed.

     “How can you say that, Peter?” Neal argued. “She has a double chin and just a little frizz on the top of her head that passes for hair.”

     “She has your blue eyes, Buddy,” Peter stated unequivocally.”

     “Peter, one person in every six people has blue eyes, so that’s not a valid indicator of paternity.”

     The FBI agent narrowed his eyes at Neal. “So, are you being truthful when you claim that you don’t know who the child’s mother is?”

     “I swear, Peter, I have no recollection of this baby’s mother. That’s where your resources at the FBI could be a real help. Maybe you could check camera footage around the storage facility to get a bead on the woman’s identity.”

     A strange look passed over Peter’s face and a little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

     “Using FBI resources to find your Baby Mama takes up valuable time, Buddy—time that would be better spent fighting actual crimes. After all, that’s what the taxpayers expect of agents at the Bureau.”

     “Do you want me to beg for your help, Peter?” Neal asked wryly. “Is that it? Because if so, then I’m begging you to do this. I can’t just suddenly morph into this child’s father when I don’t even know if she’s really mine.”

     Peter nodded his head in agreement. “Yep, you’re going to have to spring for a paternity test—on your own dime, of course. If she’s not your daughter, then she’ll be turned over to Child Services and they can sort it out. In the meantime, Pal, you’re going to have to learn how to change diapers. I’ll grant you tomorrow off from work so that you can take this baby to a pediatrician to make sure that she is healthy. Then you can take the rest of the day to buy what you need for her and get up to speed. Good luck, Papa.”

     After that pronouncement, Peter turned and left the room. Neal gritted his teeth as he heard his partner laughing loudly as he descended the stairs.

     “Well, wasn’t he a real ray of sunshine,” June remarked sarcastically as she held out her arms to the baby on Mozzie’s lap.

     The little infant didn’t seem to mind being picked up by another stranger, and she placidly began studying June’s face.

     “That’s about what you would expect from _The Man_ ,” Mozzie snorted in derision.

     Of the remaining three adults in the room, June seemed to be the most level-headed and proactive of the group when she began issuing orders like a drill sergeant.

     “Mozzie, you’ll need to make a run to the all-night grocery store to get some temporary supplies for this little one. Please purchase disposable diapers and formula for a start. Tomorrow, you and Neal can go up into the attic. I believe there is an old crib left over from the days that my grandchildren were small and came for a visit. I have a very good friend who is on the board of the opera with me. He’s a pediatrician and I’m sure that he would stop by to examine little Emma. After he leaves, I think that I’ll take myself on a shopping spree to that adorable children’s store in Midtown so that I can purchase some new frocks for this little princess.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     To his credit, Mozzie actually knew his way around infant supplies and soon returned with ready-to-feed Enfamil, bottles with nipples, and a large supply of Pampers. Now Neal’s neat and tidy loft was anything but compulsively organized because an assortment of baby supplies littered everything in the space. After Mozzie adeptly gave the little girl a bottle of formula to fortify her for the night, he expertly changed her diaper and settled her between two pillows atop Neal’s sheets.

     “As usual, you now have another female in your bed, mon frère,” he giggled as he glided out of the apartment.

~~~~~~~~~~

     There was no sleep for Neal that night. He lay rigidly next to a little blanketed bundle beside him listening to her breathe and occasionally make soft snuffling sounds. He had left a dim light burning in the darkened room so that he could still see her in the shadows. She was kind of cute, he thought to himself, in a way that all babies were cute with features that were soft and doughy and generic. She looked like every other infant to him, and he certainly didn’t see anything of himself in her at all. At one point during the long hours, she suddenly shuddered and lifted her arms for a second before settling back down into blissful oblivion. Neal had instinctively put his hand on her chest to convince himself that she was still breathing and not in distress. He finally released his own pent-up breath when he was reassured that all was well. For the first time, he actually spoke softly to her and addressed her by name.

     “If you really are my daughter, Emma, then you certainly drew the short straw. I’m probably the least qualified person to win any “Father of the Year” awards. But if I am your Dad, I promise that I’ll never abandon you. I’ve been on the receiving end of having a parent walk out on me, so I’d never do that to you. You have my word on that!”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Despite his cavalier dismissal of Neal’s plea for help, Peter did get footage from every camera in and around that now infamous storage facility.

     “She knew how to work the camera angles,” Peter informed Neal by phone the next day. “The images are very grainy, and all we could make out was a slender person of average height with a baseball cap and huge dark glasses obscuring her features. She was also wearing gloves, so forget about prints. She was carrying a bulky packing box when she went in, approximately fifteen minutes before you and Mozzie arrived, and then she left empty-handed. That’s the total extent of what we have on this mystery woman.”

     When Neal sighed in frustration, Peter lobbed his next salvo.

     “Have you made any arrangements to get a paternity test? That’s the logical next step.”

     “Not yet,” Neal admitted. “It’s on my to-do list after we finish settling in here which has become, to put it mildly, quite a process.”

     The process of which Neal spoke had certainly been instrumental in turning his orderly loft upside down. Now a bulky crib was nestled tightly into the sleeping space, and a dressing table, diaper pail, and baby hamper were haphazardly placed around the room. When Neal dubiously eyed the little white wicker bin, Mozzie explained the obvious.

     “She needs her own hamper, Neal, because you have to wash her clothes separately from yours. And you _must_ use a more delicate soap instead of a harsh detergent that may cause a rash.”

     Neal’s head was spinning, and a few minutes later he was jostled out of the way when Mozzie began manhandling an infant car seat and a very intricate-looking stroller through the door.

     “I won’t be needing a stroller, Moz,” Neal had protested as he gazed at the shiny new apparatus that probably cost as much as a hefty down payment on a new sports car.

     “Au contraire, my friend,” the little man countered. “A handsome man pushing an adorable baby in a stroller is like a chick magnet.”

     “Really, Moz, I don’t need any more ‘chicks’ in my life right now,” Neal replied in a tired voice.

     “I was talking about me, not you, Neal,” the little man answered with a gleam in his eye.

      And so the transformation of the premises continued. One of Neal’s drawers had been emptied of his neatly pressed shirts so that miniature tees, booties, nightgowns, and onesies could take their place. A pile of baby blankets, diapers, and burping cloths was on the coffee table, while new baby bottles were lined up next to the coffee press in the kitchen. Neal was awestruck that one tiny creature required so much “stuff.”

     “Do you need another day off from work, Neal?” Peter offered magnanimously later in the evening after yet another phone call.

     “No, no—I’ll be in bright and early tomorrow morning,” Neal promised.

     Actually, Neal was looking forward to returning to something that was familiarly regimented like what was behind the glass doors on the 21st floor of the FBI building. Mozzie had agreed to play babysitter while Neal was at work, and when he had made that offer, Neal almost felt like crying in relief.

     “Are you still mad at me?” Neal asked his handler when he entered Peter’s office first thing in the morning.

     “I’m not mad, Neal. I’m just disappointed with your irresponsible behavior,” Peter delivered his answer just like a million other parents probably did on a daily basis when their children messed up.

     When Neal opened his mouth but nothing came out, Peter added a caveat.

     “But you always manage to keep my life interesting, Buddy—that’s an irrefutable fact etched in stone. So, because I like you, I’m going to give you some help with your little problem so that we can get to the bottom of things. You were blindsided, but even a con man doesn’t deserve that, not to mention that somebody has to be made accountable for leaving a defenseless little baby all alone in a cardboard box.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Agent and CI really had very little information to begin their investigation. The storage locker had been rented for one month with cash, and the manager couldn’t recall any facts about the person who had come in to set up the account. The name and address on the paperwork were bogus. The storage box was a generic one that could have been purchased at any moving company or office supply store. The blanket that had originally covered the baby, as well as her clothing, had no manufacturer’s labels attached.

    With determined effort, Peter and Neal then doggedly read through long lists of all female babies born in every hospital in the five boroughs approximately two to three months ago. They then did follow-up, tediously checking names against families. Every little infant girl seemed to be safely ensconced in a loving home, so that was a dead end. That knowledge seemed to indicate that this baby may not have been born in New York City. She could have been born in another city in the large state—or actually anywhere in the United States, or even beyond its borders. There was no national database for infant footprints like there was for fingerprints, so that, too, was a non-starter.

     Neal finally did get around to delivering his and Emma’s buccal swabs to a private lab for testing to see if they were related. He was again frustrated when he was told that with a populace suddenly caught up in tracing genealogical lineages, there was a backlog of specimens, and his results could take three to four weeks. If Peter ever did track down the person who was the suspected elusive mother, then her DNA would be submitted to a more expedient FBI lab in order to tell the tale of a possible familial match. In the meantime, Neal just had to make the best of having a new woman in his life.

     “It could be worse, Neal. She not old enough yet to hog all the bathroom counter space with hair dryers, curling irons, magnifying mirrors, and cosmetics,” Mozzie chortled.

     “You’re a funny man, Moz,” Neal commented as he gave his friend the stink eye.

~~~~~~~~~~

     In reality, Neal was making a valiant effort to adjust to his new life. Somehow he forced himself to adapt to all the clutter, and eventually, he became less stressed and tense. He slept better at night although his hearing was still attuned to any sounds that came from the infant. However, he found that Emma was a happy baby who rarely cried. It was almost as if she was trying to atone for disrupting Neal’s equilibrium.

     “It’s not your fault that we’ve found ourselves in this odd situation,” he told her one evening after he had eaten some Thai carry-out and she had finished a disgusting mush of strained fruits and vegetables topped off with an eight-ounce bottle of formula. She peered at him curiously and then favored him with a heart-melting smile that he automatically returned.

     “You know, Emma, you’re a really good listener,” he complimented her, “and I know that I could tell you my deepest, darkest secrets and you’d never breathe a word to anyone. I admire and respect that. You’re the epitome of discretion, little girl.”

     Peter had also noticed that his CI seemed to have settled down a bit. El, who made frequent visits to Neal’s loft to play with the tiny baby, noticed the change as well.

     “Maybe this is just what Neal needed to center and ground him,” she told Peter. “I’ve watched him with Emma and it’s obvious that he is really trying to do all the right things. Actually, it’s very sweet to see them together.”

     Of course, the story of “Neal the New Father” made the rounds of the White Collar office, and he gracefully tolerated the teasing from co-workers about frequent food stains on his skinny vintage ties. However, he did notice that Peter tended to keep him on desk duty rather than participating in dangerous ops. Neal finally felt the need to comment on this unusual treatment.

     “Peter, am I being punished for my possible past actions like a naughty child who was caught with their hand in the cookie jar, or does Emma have something to do with me being benched?” he demanded to know.

     “It’s not like that,” Peter responded.

     “Well, that’s what it feels like to me,” Neal argued. “If you’re worried about my wellbeing because of Emma, then you’re not being fair to Diana. She has little Theo in her life but you still allow her to risk her neck in dangerous situations.”

     “Let’s table this discussion for the time being,” was all that Peter would say about the situation.

      To Neal, it felt as if his life was being put on hold until those DNA results came back to spell out his future.


	3. The Demand

     Four weeks later, Neal counted those stairs once more after a monotonous day of mortgage fraud cases that always seemed to multiply like rabbits on the side of his desk. He was looking forward to the end of the day when he could return home to unwind with a glass of Bordeaux and Emma’s uncomplicated company. Things seemed ominously quiet behind the door to his loft, and he was shocked when he found Mozzie lying unmoving on the couch and no sign of the child anywhere within the room. He frantically tried to rouse Mozzie who didn’t seem to have any obvious injuries, but it took precious long minutes before the little bald man managed to open his eyes and stare up at a worried Neal.

     “What happened, Mozzie!” Neal asked anxiously, “and where’s Emma?”

     Mozzie blinked, squinted, then blinked some more. Finally, he laboriously hoisted himself up a bit and balanced on his elbows while looking myopically around the room.

     “Neal, I … I’m not sure,” he stuttered.

     “Think, Moz, think!” Neal cajoled impatiently. “You were here with Emma, but now she’s gone. Does June have her?”

     “No, June’s not here—at least she wasn’t earlier,” Mozzie mumbled as he was trying to put the disjointed pieces back together.

     “When was that Mozzie?” Neal demanded. “Come on, Buddy, organize your thoughts because I’m beginning to freak out here.”

     The confused man closed his eyes and concentrated. “June and I spent the morning together with Emma. After that, she said that she was going to do some shopping and she left. I gave Emma her lunch and a bottle and then put her down for a nap while I had my little siesta right here on the couch.”

     “You’re doing good, Moz. Now, what happened after that?” Neal continued to probe.

     Mozzie’s head wrinkled in concentration. “I must have fallen asleep, but at some point, I vaguely remember something being pressed really hard over my nose and mouth, and then it was ‘Goodnight, Irene’ for me. The next thing I know, you’re here shaking me and looking like the captain of the Titanic.”

     “Jesus, Mozzie—lunch was six hours ago. Chloroform may have knocked you out for awhile, but definitely not that long. Roll up your sleeves to look for a puncture mark from a needle. You may have been injected with some type of sedative so that it was a combination one-two punch to keep you down for the count.”

     Neal handed Mozzie his glasses so that he could thoroughly scan his arms, and the distraught con man began to pace until he finally noticed another envelope with his name in that familiar flowing script lying blatantly atop the crib mattress.

     _“It’s time to cash in a few blue chip stocks, Mr. Silver Spoon, if you ever want to see your daughter again. One million in unmarked cash should do the trick. We’ll be in touch and it wouldn’t be so healthy for the baby if you got the police involved.”_

     “Sweet Mother of God,” Mozzie whispered when Neal showed him the words. “Some bastard has poor innocent little Emma!”

     Neal looked at his gob-smacked friend who had finally isolated a tiny pinprick on the fleshy part of his arm near the shoulder.

     “I’ll take care of this, Moz, after we get you to a hospital,” the con man replied.

     “No way, José! I’ll be just fine and I’m in for the long haul. This debacle happened on my watch so I’m looking for big-time retribution.” Mozzie was adamant on the subject.

     “Well, okay then, if you’re sure,” Neal answered gratefully. He couldn’t mask the relief in his tone when he realized that he wouldn’t be going this alone. His faithful cohort in crime had his back.

     “Are you going to bring the Suit into this as well?” Mozzie wanted to know.

     Neal frowned. “The FBI’s success statistics surrounding kidnappings is far from sterling. While they’re busy wiretapping phones and trying to blend into drop sites, they usually come up empty-handed either snagging the kidnapper or rescuing the person who was abducted. I think we’ll be better off handling this ourselves. That’s where you come in, Moz. You’ll need to raid our resources to come up with the cash. Liquidate things if you have to, but just get it together as soon as possible.”

     “On it!” Mozzie proclaimed as he staggered towards the door.

~~~~~~~~~~

     For the next several hours, Neal continued to pace as his fear for Emma’s safety ratcheted up into the stratosphere. She was just a fragile little human being, and he wondered if her kidnapper would be gentle with her. He didn’t want to let his mind wander into a dark abyss of thinking that she may already be dead. It would be so easy for someone to just hold a pillow over her face or snap her fragile little neck. Perhaps her small lifeless body would never be found.

     With a determined effort, the terrified man dragged himself away from those horrible thoughts. This was a simple business transaction, he tried to convince his troubled mind. Someone had stolen something from him. He wanted it back and was willing to pay. The kidnapper certainly wouldn’t want to put the kibosh on a lucrative deal by damaging the merchandise. Neal had to be on top of his game because the negotiations needed to be delicately handled to ensure a good outcome.

     That reasoning got him through several more hours, but then a normally nonviolent, amiable man felt the rage building. If he did manage to get Emma back, the person responsible for taking her would pay. Anklet and radius be damned, Neal wouldn’t stop until he ferreted them out, no matter where they had fled, to extract his pound of flesh.

     Time was progressing in agonizing slowness and the distraught man sought something to do with hands that were compulsively clenching and shaking. He began to straighten the clutter in his surroundings, folding small baby blankets into a stack so that the edges were precisely aligned and the disposable diapers were in a neat row on the dressing table. Next, he attacked the haphazard collection of baby bottles on the kitchen counter and lined them up by height. It was then that he picked up another envelope and pulled out the lone piece of professional stationary so that he could again reread the words on the single page. Amazingly, that random action was responsible for a sudden epiphany, as all the nebulous fragments of a puzzle magically coalesced into something that made sense. Neal chastised himself for letting emotion overshadow logic. He should have figured it out sooner!

~~~~~~~~~~

     Later that night, Neal’s phone chimed indicating an unidentified caller was trying to reach him. He only managed to get out the word “Hello” before a mechanically altered voice began its spiel. Neal was to come alone the following evening at midnight to an isolated part of Central Park where there was a boathouse. He was to leave the money in a satchel by a side door. If he did as asked, another phone call would later supply him with Emma’s location.”

     “Not happening, dude,” Neal interrupted the voice. “If you really want your million, this is how it’s going to go down. I’ll meet you at that boathouse, but you will have Emma with you. We exchange a satchel for a healthy baby and it’s all copacetic.”

     “You don’t get to call the shots, Daddy Warbucks,” the voice snarked. “We’ve got your kid and you’ll never know what happened to her if you don’t play along just like I say.”

     “Listen, my friend,” Neal countered. “I’m not even sure that she is my daughter, so maybe instead of continuing to fish with you down at the pier, I’ll just cut bait and go back to my uncomplicated life. I never asked for some kid to be dumped in my lap. You really don’t know me, so I could be just that callous and unconcerned about her welfare.”

     That seemed to take the wind out of the kidnapper’s sails, and Neal waited patiently after displaying a cold-hearted bravado that he really didn’t feel. He was literally gambling on this person’s greed, with little Emma’s destiny hanging in the balance.

     “Alright, we’ll do it your way,” the voice had come to a decision. “But you better come alone or you just may not live long enough to get on with your entitled little life in that luxurious mansion.”

~~~~~~~~~~

       Neal was a true chameleon, so the next morning a stressed and worried man put on one of Byron’s vintage suits and it was like donning armor that enabled him to assume an air of easygoing confidence and bonhomie. While working at his job, he drank the horrible office coffee and kibitzed with fellow associates just like he always had every day for the last several years. No one in his sphere detected anything amiss—well, almost no one.

     Peter gazed down from his office into the bullpen and zeroed in on Neal’s dark head bent over a file. He had tried to entice Neal to accompany him to lunch, but the con man had uncharacteristically begged off saying that he was about to make a breakthrough with one of the old mortgage fraud cases. Neal declining an invitation to his favorite sushi bar in lieu of keeping his nose to the grindstone was a blatant red flag for Peter, and his handler was getting a troubling vibe. Suddenly, some one-on-one time seemed appropriate, so Peter gave Neal the two-fingered summons that had the con man jogging up the steps to his office.

     Peter knew that he had to handle this conversation delicately if he expected to get anywhere with a complicated and perverse man who had as many layers as an onion. Their relationship over the years had evolved a bit, but Peter was a realist who had to accept the fact that their interactions probably would always continue to be a convoluted chess game with subtle nuances and strategic moves. However, Peter felt that he had one ace in the hole—at least he hoped that he could still play that card. Neal had once told Peter that he would never lie to him, at least not a direct bare-faced lie. Peter just had to figure out the right questions to ask.

     Neal stood before him with a smile on his face and his eyebrows raised inquiringly. He didn’t immediately flop into the chair across from Peter’s desk as he normally did.

     “What’s up, Peter?” he asked innocently as he stood just inside the door of the glassed-in office.

     “Oh, I was just wondering how Emma’s doing?” the FBI agent inquired as he started the parry and thrust discussion.

     Neal shrugged his shoulders. “As you know, Mozzie has assumed the role of Emma’s designated nanny, so I would imagine that at this moment he is doing his thing to keep her safe,” he answered evasively.

     “Have you gotten those paternity results back yet, Neal?” was the next question.

     Neal managed a rueful little smile. “Peter, the lab told me when I gave them the swabs that the process takes time and that I’d just have to be patient.”

     “Yeah, well patience isn’t your strong suit, Neal—being maddeningly impulsive is. So, is there anything that you’d like to share with me?”

     “Absolutely not, Peter,” Neal claimed decisively. “You know, Buddy, sometimes you can be as paranoid as a certain little bald man that we both know and love.”

     “Well, I wouldn’t go that far regarding my feelings about a certain annoying pest,” Peter huffed.

     Neal chuckled, happy that he had deflected Peter’s probing, and, like a wisp of smoke, took the opportunity to disappear from his suspicious handler’s office.

     “That went really well,” Peter’s mind chided him sarcastically. “I didn’t even scratch the surface!”


	4. An Impulsive Gesture

     When Peter returned to his Brooklyn townhouse that evening, he immediately opened his laptop and brought up Neal’s anklet information in real time. The blinking little dot was firmly entrenched in June’s mansion exactly where it should be. That laptop stood open next to the pot-roast during dinner with El, and then found its way to the living room coffee table when Peter turned on a Yankees’ game.

     “Peter, you’re obsessing over Neal again,” El proclaimed wearily. “What exactly has your Spidey senses on high alert? What do you think that he’s done this time?”

     “I can’t put my finger on it, Hon,” Peter admitted, “but I just got a feeling today that something is off with him.”

     “Well, raising a baby is definitely difficult,” El mused. “Maybe, for once in his life, Neal has found that he is a novice at something that doesn’t come easily for him. Perhaps he just had a rough night with Emma because she’s teething or something,” the compassionate and level-headed woman tried to reason away her husband’s worry.

     “Maybe …..” Peter drawled out that speculative word, although he didn’t sound convinced.

     At 11 o’clock, El was ready to call it a night and head on up to bed. Her husband, however, still had his eyes glued to a laptop screen even after his favorite baseball team had lost a double-header and the television screen was now dark.

     “Just go and see for yourself,” Elizabeth sighed in exasperation. “If you don’t, you’ll never be able to get a wink of sleep!”

~~~~~~~~~~

     So, that is how Peter found himself a half-hour later knocking on Neal’s door and then entering the loft before being invited in. The sight that he took in was very disturbing, to say the least. Neal and Mozzie were clad entirely in black resembling different sized versions of Johnny Cash. June rounded out a trio who were neatly packing banded stacks of bills with William McKinley’s picture on them into a substantial leather satchel. When the three looked up and saw Peter, it was as if they were deer caught in the headlights. The observant federal agent also noticed that there was no sign of Emma anywhere in the apartment. It certainly didn’t take but a few seconds for the intelligent and perceptive man to connect the dots surrounding the mystery.

     Peter strolled slowly over to peek inside the bag that was brimming with crisp $500 bills. Closing his eyes briefly, the dismayed agent prayed to a higher power for strength and endurance.

     “Exactly where did you get a horde of cash this size, Neal, and what are you planning on doing with this little windfall?”

     The con artist had lost his initial shock at the surprise intrusion, and now set his jaw firmly, determined to play the hand that he was dealt.

     “This money belongs to me, Peter, and I can do whatever I want with what is mine. Keeping cash around is not against the law. Save your suspicions for when I may actually commit a crime.”

     “And just _what_ do you intend to do with your cache, Neal. It looks like you’re making arrangements to take it somewhere. I don’t see little Emma here, but I see lots of money. Is that the price someone has put on her head? Is someone holding her for ransom and you’re going to attempt to buy her back? Neal, stop being evasive and cagey. What you plan to do is just plain impulsive and stupid, and many other adjectives that I could add to that list.”

     “Just leave it alone, Peter,” Neal ground out as his eyes flashed. “This has nothing to do with you, and I’ve got it handled and don’t need any interference on your end.”

     “You know that I can’t do that, Neal,” his handler said with just as much determination. “You should have come to me. The Bureau has the resources to deal with a situation like this. Let me get my team on board.”

     “No, Peter! The Bureau could get her killed,” Neal retorted defiantly with steel in his voice. “Besides, there isn’t time for your Fed cronies to get organized. This thing is already in motion and is going down in thirty minutes. So, just back off and don’t even think about trying to stop me from leaving this room. I really don’t want to do something that I’ll regret.”

     “Are you threatening me, Neal?” Peter seemed incredulous.

     The young man took a deep, calming breath and faced his mentor. “Peter, please, if you have even the slightest bit of compassion in your soul for me, or even just a tinge of trust, let me do what I need to do to get that baby back safely.”

     Neal’s ardent plea seemed to have the desired effect. Peter let out his pent-up breath and delivered his ultimatum. “I’ll let you do your thing, Neal, but I’m going off-book and coming along for the ride. That’s my final offer—take it or leave it. Just be aware that I wouldn’t feel the least bit of guilt for putting you in cuffs right now!”

     Peter had been intently staring at Neal to the exclusion of everyone else in the room. He didn’t realize that Mozzie had come up behind him until he felt stiff fingers squeeze the side of his neck. Suddenly, the world was tilting and Peter’s vision went black. A second later, he toppled to the floor with a thud.

     Neal and June were staring hard at Mozzie in bewilderment.

     “Huh!” the little man uttered, seemingly fascinated with his impulsive handiwork. “That Vulcan neck pinch actually works. Apparently, you simply have to know how to compress the vagus nerve just right to achieve the desired results. When you’re of small stature like I am, it behooves you to investigate self-defense techniques, and I must say, it seems like the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

     “Very impressive, Mozzie,” June said with awe in her voice. “Will he be all right?”

     “Oh sure,” Mozzie piped up, “or at least I think so. I believe that the Suit should come around soon, but I sure hope he doesn’t hold a grudge. However, in the near future, I may have to make myself scarce for awhile because I doubt that we’ll be able to smooth this thing over even with a pot of Mrs. Suit’s herbal tea and some tasty scones.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     It was only minutes later that Peter felt someone gently tapping his cheek and found himself in a horizontal position staring up into June’s concerned eyes as she hovered over him. When he peered around, he discovered that she was the only other person in the room.

     “How long was I out?” he mumbled as he struggled to his feet, holding onto the kitchen counter for support.

     “Just a few minutes, Peter,” June answered. “Please don’t be angry with the boys for going rogue. They are just doing what needs to be done, and they didn’t want to place you in any physical danger or put your career at risk. Really, this was for your own good.”

     Peter didn’t answer. Instead, he turned on the kitchen faucet and began splashing cold water on his face. It was when he was reaching for a paper towel that he noticed the piece of paper with a medical lab’s logo at the top. He picked it up and began to read a report that went on for several paragraphs about chromosomes and alleles, but it was the final sentence that drew his attention.

_After in-depth comparison of the buccal swabs that were submitted to this laboratory, we have concluded that there is no evidence of a familial match contained within the DNA of the two samples._

     Peter was flabbergasted by this new information. “So, Neal is definitely not Emma’s father?”

     “No, Peter, he’s not,” June answered softly.

     “How long has he known?” was Peter’s next query.

     “For almost a week,” June replied.

     “Even though Neal knows that the child is not his, he’s still willing to pay a king’s ransom and risk his life to get her back,” Peter said incredulously.

     “Peter, Peter,” June mocked as she shook her head sadly, “you claim to know Neal so well. Well, shame on you because it’s obvious that you don’t know that young man as well as you think you do!”

~~~~~~~~~~

     It was just one minute to midnight, and Neal stood alertly on the path in front of the boathouse in Central Park with the heavy satchel in his hand. He waited patiently until, eventually, a dark image emerged from the shadows of the almost nonexistent moonlight. The man was about Neal’s age and height, and although he had a black watch cap on his head, he had done nothing else to disguise his appearance. Neal knew that didn’t bode well. This guy probably thought that he was never going to have to worry about Neal identifying him.

     “So, you were brave enough to come,” the apparition almost sneered. “Is the money in there?”

     “It is,” was Neal terse answer. “I delivered my end of the bargain, but you’ve come empty-handed. Where’s Emma?”

     “We’ll get to that when I’m sure that you really have come with cash in hand,” the man replied. “Now put it down and take three steps back.”

     “Not going to happen,” Neal countered.

     “You do realize that you’re risking the baby’s life with all this macho stuff, right?” the kidnapper snapped.

     “You’re not going to harm Emma, so, likewise, you can stop with all the drama as well,” Neal challenged.

     “You sure about that? Do you really think that you know it all because you’re so very clever?” was the snarled reply.

     “Yeah, I am,” Neal reassured him with obvious conviction. “Now, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. I’ll hand over the money as soon as you bring the child here and let me take her.”

     “Listen, pal, I don’t need you to hand the payoff over. I can just take it out of your dead hand!”

     Suddenly, a gun appeared in the villain’s grip and he fired point blank at Neal. The force of the shot knocked the young man backward onto the ground where he lay very still. Just a nanosecond later, another shot rang out that caused the kidnapper to scream as a slug of lead tore through his shoulder. His lethal weapon flew from his hand as he plummeted to the ground writhing in agony.

     It was then that Peter arrived on the scene and raced toward Neal. He hurriedly knelt down, frantically calling out his partner’s name. At the same time, Jones and Diana materialized from behind the boat house with their own weapons drawn and pointed at the assailant on the ground before them.

     “FBI!! Don’t move, you bastard! You’re under arrest for kidnapping, extortion, and attempted murder!” Diana barked out in her bad-ass voice.

     “Don’t forget to add assault with grievous harmful intent,” Mozzie demanded as he strolled out of the shadows with what appeared to be an antique pearl-handled Colt 45 pistol from the days of yesteryear in the old Wild West. He then nonchalantly blew on the smoking barrel of the big gun and tucked it into the small of his back before clarifying, “This cretin incapacitated me with chloroform as well as some other nefarious sedative. Who knows what else he may have done to me when I was out cold.”

     Peter never heard all of that exchange because he had blocked everything from his mind except for Neal’s face before him. He was anxiously tearing at the young man’s clothes looking for the entry wound when his fumbling hands encountered something rigid beneath his fingers. Just then, a stunned Neal began to moan and his eyes fluttered open.

     “Peter,” he mumbled as he began panting harshly while trying to catch his breath. “Did you get him? Is Emma here?”

     It was then that Peter discerned that Neal’s chest was encased in a protective high-tech assault vest. Wedged right over his heart was the expended bullet sticking out like a splinter. Peter was sure that Neal would have one hell of a contusion over the site, and perhaps even a broken rib, but at least he was still alive.

     Peter needed to sit down or he feared that he would fall down as his adrenalin began ebbing. He chose to awkwardly flop beside his partner.

     “It wasn’t me who got him, Neal. It was Wild Bill Hickok over there with his six-shooter,” Peter admitted as he nodded his head towards Mozzie.

     “What about Emma?” Neal persisted.

     “We’ll get the kidnapper to tell us where she is, Neal, I promise you.”

     Neal grimaced as he sat up. “You can’t charge him with kidnapping, Peter, because a father can’t kidnap his own child.”


	5. Not Impulsive—Just Wistful

      Two people went to the hospital that day, neither with life-threatening injuries. Neal was quickly released after his chest had been x-rayed and the treating physician gave him a thumbs up. It appeared that Mozzie had only winged the kidnapper, and that perp was summarily bandaged, injected with an antibiotic, and relinquished into the FBI’s custody. Before the ambulances had even pulled away from the scene at the boathouse, the local police had been called in to do a grid search around Central Park. They quickly discovered a young woman in a beat-up Mazda with little Emma in the back seat. That woman had also been arrested.

     The next day, Peter again made his way up three flights of stairs to Neal’s loft. This time he had the courtesy to knock and wait for an invitation to enter. Neal, himself, opened the door to face his mentor.

     “Come on in, Peter, and join the festivities,” he smiled.

     Beyond that door, there did seem to be a party in full swing with little Emma at the center of everyone’s attention. June, Mozzie, and all of the mansion’s ancillary staff, from the cook to the chauffeur, were gathered together and passing the infant from person to person. However, most of the celebrants quickly took their leave after Peter stepped into the room, until only June and Mozzie were left behind.

     Peter couldn’t help but smile as Neal claimed the little girl and settled her onto his lap. The con man’s face had taken on an affectionate softness as he gazed at Emma, and she returned his look with a version of childlike adoration. Suddenly, Peter found that he had a lump in his throat and he made harrumphing sounds to clear it.

     “How did you know, Neal?” he finally asked curiously—an odd non-sequitur that seemed out of context in the moment. But agent and CI had always been on the same wavelength so the young man knew exactly what Peter was asking.

     “Maybe I had an inkling that something was in the works when I read the lab’s results,” Neal mused. “Since Emma definitely wasn’t my child, somebody obviously had gone to a lot of trouble to make me think so and to set me up as a patsy. I couldn’t image what their endgame was until Emma was taken and I got that phone call demanding money. It was then that I concluded that Emma had initially been left for me to find so that I would be thrown off kilter and begin to wonder if I really was her dad. I suspected that her actual parents were allowing enough time for me to form an attachment before they abducted her. I suppose that they didn’t figure on me getting the DNA results so quickly and discovering the truth. I knew that a mother and father wouldn’t harm their own child. They were just despicable parents who were a couple of scam artists using their baby to run a contemptible con.”

     “Well, I guess it takes a scam artist to recognize another one,” Peter remarked, drawing scowls from both June and Mozzie.

     “Crass, Suit, very crass,” Mozzie scolded.

     Peter favored Mozzie with a narrow-eyed squint. “I’m not talking to you, Haversham, for obvious reasons. You are a real walking menace, and I have a very long memory. There will come a day when you will regret your past actions, and hopefully, I’ll be around to witness your comeuppance and smile.”

     “Whatever …” was Mozzie’s breezy reply. “I’ve professed my ardent mea culpa to Mrs. Suit and I’m secure in the knowledge that she still loves me.”

     Peter just glared at the little bald man, and the urge to add a snappy retort overrode his vow not to speak to Mozzie.

    “Well, let me just say that down the road you and I will definitely be having an in-depth discussion about that antiquated peacemaker ‘cannon’ that you fired in a public place. I’ll bet you don’t even have a proper license to own it.”

     June sought to distract the federal agent from harassing Mozzie by quickly changing the subject.

      “So, Peter, tell us more about these disreputable people who have no right to be parents," she said haughtily.

     Thus Peter began his explanation at length. The convoluted tale had been provided by the perpetrators in an effort to reduce their sentences at trial which included the very serious charge of attempted murder.

      “Randall and Melanie Eberhard are two grifters who had a plan that began over a year ago. They came to the city from the Midwest to set up a ‘get rich quick’ scheme. They conceived a child—little Emma—and then set their game in motion. Previously, they had meticulously scoped out a number of upscale expensive bars, restaurants, and coffee houses in the city so that they could zero in on those men who seemed wealthy and powerful. Melanie is a very attractive young woman, so she usually had no trouble seducing these unsuspecting marks. As a rule, she looked for men with wedding rings on their fingers, but I guess in your case, Neal, she made an exception.”

     Neal was frowning. “Peter, I swear that I don’t remember having sex with her.”

     “That’s probably because you didn’t. Melanie has confessed that she would slip Rohypnol into a gentleman’s drink during the course of the evening. Then she and Randall would take the guy to some hotel and use his credit card to obtain a room, thereby leaving a charge that would appear on his next statement. At that point, they left the incapacitated man to wake up the next day with a hangover, completely oblivious as to how he had gotten there and only a vague recollection of entertaining a very pretty and friendly girl. Most of the poor jerks just assumed that they had scored and thought nothing of it until Melanie would accost them at their offices or on the street a month or so later. She’d claim that she was pregnant with their child, and would even have a copy of a lab report proving that she was expecting.

     Then Melanie would demand money for an abortion or hush money to disappear. Most of her conquests coughed up the money because they didn’t want their wives or their business associates to find out about a scandal that could ruin them. In your case, Neal, Randall and Melanie did eventually find out that you were unmarried. However, they observed you coming and going from this mansion and assumed that you were a philandering young stud, perhaps the son of a very wealthy scion of society who would be embarrassed by your behavior. They thought that they had won the brass ring and could reach for the sky when they demanded a payoff from you.”

     June interrupted Peter’s story momentarily by saying, “Nothing that Neal could ever do would embarrass me. I’m an old lady with a tough hide and, thanks to my Byron, I’ve weathered scandals of every ilk many times over. Although Byron never strayed in the marriage department, let’s just say that he was into many other things of a dubious nature and leave it at that.”

     Peter drolly smiled at the indomitable doyenne and decided to ignore that comment.

     “Anyway,” he continued, “Randall is trying for a plea bargain to lessen his sentence for the attempted murder charge. So, in exchange, the deal was that he had to provide the names of the pair’s marks so that we could verify his story. Most of these men were not too happy to hear from us, but they all confidentially admitted that over a year ago they had been extorted for various large amounts of money.

     Now, here’s where the proverbial fly in the ointment comes in. Just as the two culprits were wending their way through their list of rich men, Randall gets himself arrested on a drug charge. Since he was dealing, he subsequently earned a year’s stay in Attica, and Melanie found that she was too afraid to run their game without backup waiting in the wings. She decided to lay low in New Jersey during her husband’s incarceration. Eventually, she went on to deliver little Emma some months later, and then continued to wait for her husband to be released from prison.

     Now the evildoers had to alter their initial game plan. Since you, Neal, were the only single man on their long list of fall guys, you got to win the prize—little Emma. They were hoping that you would bond with her until they were ready to pull the plug with one last monumental payout. After they had gotten their money, they planned to eliminate you because you were a loose end. Thank God you had the forethought to wear that impenetrable vest to the meet.”

     “See, Peter,” Neal reminded his mentor, “my actions were precisely and carefully thought out with not even a whiff of impulsiveness.”

     “Going it alone was over-the-top _impulsiveness,_ you idiot,” Peter claimed heatedly. “What if that creep had gone for a headshot instead of center mass? You’d be a goner, Neal, that’s what, even with old ‘Deadeye Dick’ lurking in the bushes as your backup!”

     “Getting Emma back was worth the risk,” Neal said quietly.

     Again, June stepped in to deflect Peter’s exasperated wrath.

     “So surely, Peter, those two awful people do not deserve the privilege of being Emma’s parents. She simply can’t be returned to them ever again.”

     Peter was quick to reply, “No, they won’t ever get their child back. In fact, part of the plea deal was that they would sign away their parental rights to Emma.”

     That left the elephant in the room, and both June and Mozzie realized that Peter and Neal needed to have some alone time to talk about it. They departed quite hesitantly, all the while casting anxious glances over their shoulders. By now, little Emma had fallen asleep in Neal’s arms and he walked to her crib, gently situating her beneath a pink checkered comforter.

     “You know that you can’t keep her, Neal,” Peter began softly as the young man continued to stand quietly and gaze down at the child.

      “Of course I know that,” Neal finally answered a bit wistfully. “Child Protective Services is coming for her tomorrow. Emma’s very young, so the social worker assured me that she would most likely be adopted very quickly. She deserves to have doting parents and a stable home life—something that I could never provide. I’d be a terrible father and do all the wrong things and probably scar her psyche for life.”

     “Do you want to hear my take on that?” Peter asked.

     Neal grimaced and sighed deeply. “Peter, I really don’t think that I could stand to hear another lecture highlighting my stupid, impulsive shortcomings. Please cut me some slack for once.”

     “Sorry, Buddy, but like it or not, you’re going to hear me out on the subject,” Peter insisted. “I think that one day you will meet some young woman who adores you and who will provide you with a child of your own. That child will be very, very lucky to have a parent with such a good and kind heart. I have absolutely no doubt that you will be a wonderful Dad whenever that happens, Neal.”

     The young man looked up in surprise. “But I don’t have a clue how to raise a kid.”

     A fond smile found its way to Peter’s lips. “Well, then I suppose you’ll just have to wing it, Neal, exactly as I’ve been doing while taking care of you for the last several years.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of you have read a lot of my White Collar stories over the years and are familiar with my work, so I just wanted everyone to know that I have now had a novel published. Last year, I gave it a trial run right here on Archive under "Original Fiction." It is called "A Person of Value," and, when I wrote it, I had Neal and Peter in mind as I shaped my characters and took them through their paces. If you are interested, it is available on Amazon as either a paperback or ebook.


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